Requiem
by LusciniaeCantus
Summary: AU wardeathfic. There was something so very wrong about this funeral, Tezuka thinks to himself. At the burial ceremony of a fallen comrade, Tezuka reflects. [oneshot]


**requiem**

_LusciniaeCantus_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Prince of Tennis in any way, shape or form.

**A/N:** This piece was written based on another warAU done by Chrissie on LJ. It's not necessary for understanding this ficlet, but I just wanted to acknowledge that. :)

Also, thank you all once again for supporting me and reading my work and reviewing. It's very encouraging as a writer to hear feedback on my stories from third parties, so thank you all.

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The church was magnificent, grandiose in the fashion of most old cathedrals that had been built long before the war and had managed to survive the ages unscathed. But the war was over now. Fuji's final victory against Kirihara had ensured that.

Fuji had been killed in action and he went down with fighting to the last minute for the victory of his homeland, or so they were told. Tezuka knows though from talking to the soldiers under Fuji's command that day that the late colonel's death wasn't really all that glorious. He had only been severely wounded during the battle itself and had died hours later on the long trek back to base.

Tezuka looked up from his thoughts as he heard the trumpet sound, heralding the funeral procession. The soft murmur around him died as everyone rose to their feet and saluted. Tezuka pulled himself up as well, his body feeling strangely heavy as though he was moving against a particularly powerful current. If he had any poetic sense, he'd have named it grief, but the General wasn't one to wax poetic about anything; that had always been Fuji's specialty.

The casket, followed by the medals and sword bearers, was marched down the aisle solemnly, the soldiers' boots making muffled, but precise clicks on the bright red carpet. When they reached the front, the casket was lowered onto the altar, the medal placed at its foot and Fuji's sword down the center. All the movements were sharp with the familiarity of routine and absolute discipline.

Fuji had been promoted after his death from Colonel to General and was being sent off with all the pomp such a title afforded him, not to mention the added title of War Hero. All his medals had been polished to a perfect shine and they were lined up neatly on the rich velvet cushion. There was an ironic humour to that, Tezuka noted, and to this entire ceremony in fact.

Fuji had never cared less about the cold metallic pieces handed to him for what was deemed 'acts of valour' or 'deeds of exceptional courage'. As far as he was concerned, they were a reminder of the blood on his hands and were never worn, never displayed. Perhaps, when the war had just begun, Fuji had been proud to receive his first medal for service to his country, but after the first three months, which stretched into three long years, any and all pride in himself was buried, along with his innocence. Tezuka knew for a fact that those same glittering medals had been stored in a grimy old shoebox and thrown carelessly under Fuji's bunk—out of sight.

The archbishop presiding over the service today was now descending the stairs to stand before Fuji's casket. As Tezuka watched him say the customary prayers, he was hit with an overwhelming sense of wrongness. The scene before him was so completely inapt that it was almost funny, if not for the fact that it was really extremely sad. To Tezuka's knowledge, Fuji had never been a religious person to begin with and the war had sucked any inkling of faith he might've ever had. In the end, Fuji was nothing more than a shell, a parody of his former self with the bitter, twisted expressions that eventually replaced his eternal smile. Listening to the final blessings and the respectful silence of the people gathered, Tezuka felt a sick kind of laughter turning in his stomach. This was all so ridiculous and oh, how Fuji would've laughed at the pointlessness of it all. The late Colonel was just the type to be amused by this kind of perverse irony.

"It's so wrong."

Tezuka turned his head slightly to regard the young man beside him who had whispered the words with a mixture of regret and frustration. Echizen Ryoma had been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel after his triumph over Sanada. The war had hardened him into less of a cocky brat, but more brittle and withdrawing, especially after Captain Momoshiro's death.

"Fuji-sempai would've despised this." There was a pained expression on his sharp features and his golden eyes were haunted by sorrow and the shadows of death. Before Tezuka could question him on his statements, the young man stood abruptly and turned away.

"Where are you going, Lieutenant Colonel?"

Ryoma's back stiffened minutely in reflexive defiance before he replied. "I can't stand this anymore." His voice sounded close to breaking, but his posture never slackened. The elder of the two was uncertain as to whether he was referring to Fuji's funeral ceremony or something else.

"Good bye, Buchou."

Echizen's hand twitched as though to salute, but in the end, he just walked away and out of the church without a single backward glance.

Despite the war, it seemed like Ryoma still retained some of his old obstinacy and defiance, but Tezuka could never just walk out of the ceremony and for a moment, he envied the younger boy for that last bit of saving grace. He was going to sit through the entire funeral with its atmosphere saturated with artificial gravity and memories of Fuji's twisted humour.

And when they shuffled outside to lay Fuji's body to rest forever, Tezuka's fists clenched involuntarily, his nails digging painfully into his palms as the mirth died away and he was left feeling an aggravating combination of helplessness and anger.

17 gunmen lined up at the edge of the cemetery, their rifles held stiffly at their sides. Kikumaru and Oishi were of the 17 soldiers chosen for the gun salute and they stood at attention with the rest of their comrades.

Fuji was truly being sent off with a hero's farewell. Next to the 21-gun salute afforded only for royalty and national ceremonies, the 17-gun salute was the highest honour the country could offer its citizens. Tezuka listened absently as the deafening crack of eighteen rounds fired once, then again and again until three consecutive shots rang through the still, summer air.

And then there was silence.

The officer presiding over the service (Arai, Tezuka believed his name was; he'd served under Tezuka in Rokakku) marched over to Fuji's casket, and solemnly folded the white and blue Seigaku flag draped over the top. There was no one to present it to, however, and would later be shipped to Fuji's residence along with his service medals.

Then the casket was lowered into the freshly dug grave and the only sound was the smacking of dirt hitting wood as the grave was filled in.

The sense of wrongness welled up again, growing with every shovelful of dirt that filled the hole, blocking out sunlight and air forever.

Fuji was water and Fuji was wind; infinitely deep, utterly ungraspable, and always, always moving, never stopping. Fuji was even fire sometimes, a cold fire that burned at the same time it chilled to the bone and never stopped until you were on your knees. Tezuka had seen his hidden fire and knew it to be as much a part of Fuji's makeup as both water and wind. He was all three, living and thriving in a shimmering world of his own, just out of reach of ordinary people.

The one thing that Fuji was not, and had never been, was earth. The cold, still, and constant earth. It was mouldable, tangible and above all, _predictable_. The irony threatened to tear Tezuka apart from the inside. Fuji would've never wanted to be buried, imprisoned in the cold, dark earth. It would have been far more appropriated to cremate him and to spread his ashes to the wind and waters, letting them take him wherever they deigned. It sounded like something Fuji would come up with, Tezuka mused to himself with grim amusement.

Later, after all the guests had left, Tezuka walked to stand in front of Fuji's grave, reaching out a hand as though to grab a handful of the freshly turned earth. And he promised on Fuji's grave to bring him a platter of Kawamura's Super-Spicy-Peel-Your-Skin-Off special dish, and a sample of sand and waves from Rikkai's famous beaches. He promised to take care of Echizen, to prevent him from succumbing to the darkness that he had not been able to save Fuji from. He promised to visit often, with wasabi sushi and Inui's most recent creations and to share all the latest news concerning their friends and comrades.

As he stood there, the sun starting to cast a red-gold glow over the land, making the headstones' shadows stretch long and dark, Tezuka promised to live, and to remember.

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((ducks)) 

Yes, alright alright. ... I killed Fuji. SORRRY! But it was _essential_ to getting inside Tezuka's head, and you _know_, it wouldn't have worked with anyone else. Admit it.

((grin))

Now leave a review? It'll make me happy which means less chance of more angst. ((smiles sweetly))


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